Interests:imagination. laughter. friendship. coffee, chai and chocolate. sunshine. theatre. pirates. simplicity. creative writing. earrings. folklore and mythology. singing. philadelphia sophistication. family. midnight. hugs and backrubs. being. exploration. difference. insight and perspective. photography. dance. the UK. opportunity. hiking and kayaking. learning. mystery. the natural world. faeries. random humor. music. jewish history and culture. solitude. literature. the ocean. freedom. coloring books and markers. tolkien. deviant art. intellectual conversations. games. foreign languages. quaint towns and reticent people. dreaming. world travel. catching sunsets. sleeping. adventure and spontaneity. movies. long walks. emotion. idyllic experiences. the color purple. defying my fears. reaching for the edges of God... Expertise:Let's just say, "I dwell in possibility."
so, there's this dress that i bought on sale at Old Navy about five years ago. it cost me $3. it was a little drop-waisted number that came to my knees, had a bunch of flounces at the bottom and sported a bow directly under the bodice. unfortunately, this is the only picture i have of it.
i wore it a handful of times until i came to the conclusion that it looked a little too "shirley temple-ish" (i.e. young) for me. that, and it had definitely gone out of style (if it was ever in style at all). i slid it in the very back of my closest and forgot about it.
fast-forward five years.
as i was getting ready for church this morning, i found myself in one of those moods where everything in my wardrobe felt profoundly boring. i had emptied half the contents of my closet into a disorganized, frustrated heap on my bed. and that's when i saw it: the five-year-old dress i had nearly forgotten about, slumping dejectedly over the very last hanger. that's it! i thought. i can totally work with that.
i ripped out the bow. i grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off the very last ruffle. i paired it with some other odds and ends in my closet: black leggings, black boots, a white cami, a black half-sweater, and the lavender pashmina i bought in italy.
and there you have it! my useless, forgotten "little-girl" dress transformed into a funky tunic top in all of five minutes.
and this, my friends, is why i don't throw things away. love it or hate it, you have to admit that gaining a completely new outfit without spending any money is a pretty delightful experience. i would rather mend, alter, enhance, or attack my clothes with scissors until there is nothing left to reinvent. it's cheaper and far more entertaining than simply shelling out for new clothes whenever styles decide to change.
since there is no place large enough to contain so much happiness, you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you into everything you touch. you are not responsible. you take no credit, as the sky takes no credit for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it, and it that way, be known. (naomi shihab nye)
speak to me of the changing seasons, of the mottled leaves and their gentle bleeding
the way the air grows sharp behind your knees, punctuating your steps.
speak to me of a sky so cloudless that the birds are in danger of falling too high.
i want to hear about the harvest, your harvest.
i want to watch your chapped lips give birth to the blue lethargy of your syllables and listen to your voice as it plods, fragmented like the motion of your plow through a fecund, fungal earth: plunge, drag, start over
until
i slip in the spidery silk of corn threads between your calloused fingers and feel the aching of the wheat fields after rain.
each of these hands represents a singular voice; it reflects a specific, limited experience of what it means to be human. each of these hands describes a personal understanding of identity, or offers a summary of one's dominant metanarrative. each of these hands holds a truth.
at 3:13, there is a clip of a adult's hand tenderly, thoughtfully stroking that of an infant. it is poignant, somehow, almost protective... as though that man or woman is wondering what words will come to identify this child's experience of himself in the world. what will his hand say when he is grown?
i am hurt. i am hopeful. i am confused. i am clairvoyant. i am successful. i am a dreamer. i am empty. i am full. i am cursed. i am redeemed.
i am thinking about the recent earthquakes that shook indonesia, and the tsunami that swept over samoa. i am imagining the hands of those trapped under rubble; those hands are now covered in mud and oil and concrete dust and blood. what did they say? and what about the hands of those washed out to sea, their few precious life words smeared by salt water, teased away from them until they are unrecognizable? these people were small books with smaller stories, but a relentless sea is blotting out their words and running them together until they are a forgotten mess of ink, and water-wrinkled skin, and seaweed.
how small a thing is life. and so fragile. for all our collecting and asking and acquiring and struggling and educating, we never really leave this world with more than a tiny handful of intangible truths, created out of things like love, experience, memory, and pain.
so, tell me... what is your story? what is your truth? if you were to unfold your palm right now, what would it say?
